


The Twelve Gays of Christmas

by RobinLorin



Series: Boyfriend From Gascony [12]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Christmas Fluff, Established Relationship, Family, Gift Giving, Humor, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-20
Updated: 2016-08-20
Packaged: 2018-08-09 20:57:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7816957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RobinLorin/pseuds/RobinLorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“If you think about it, the twelve days of Christmas are totally a great setup for a twelve-part porno. The Twelve Gays of Christmas.” </p><p>Athos closed his eyes in a vain attempt to sleep. “No, I hadn’t thought about it. I still don’t want to think about it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Twelve Gays of Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> It's been over 90 degrees here for most of the past two weeks. I need it to be winter already. So here, have some Christmas cheer. 
> 
> A note: this takes place a few weeks after the events of the BfFG AU Big Bang. It'll be the last series fic to closely follow that story; all upcoming stories will be spread out much further over the years.

“Did you have anything to do with this?” d’Artagnan demanded as soon Athos answered his call.

Athos turned the music down on the car radio, and kept his camera aimed on the house across the road. “Did I have what to do with what?”

“My work schedule. You did this, didn’t you? Or Porthos and Aramis did. Wait!”

There was a clatter. Athos listened, but d’Artagnan seemed to have abandoned his phone. He tucked the phone between his ear and shoulder and checked the camera again. Still no movement from the house.

There was another clatter as d’Artagnan’s phone was picked up again. But it wasn’t d’Artagnan on the line.

“Detective boyfriend?”

Ah, he knew that voice. “Intern Dusson,” he replied. “Is d’Artagnan incapacitated?”

“He’s going to ask you about his schedule,” she hissed. “It was complete coincidence, okay? No one had anything to do with it. It just turned out that way.”

Athos sat up straight. “I’m sorry? What’s going on?”

“Just remember!”

There was another clatter, much louder than the first. Athos winced. He didn’t have to wait long before d’Artagnan was snatching up his phone again.

“I asked Constance,” his boyfriend said, a touch of irritability in his tone. “She said she didn’t know anything about it. So it must’ve been you three. Did you strong-arm Treville into doing this?”

“I’m lost,” Athos confessed. “What happened?”

D’Artagnan huffed. “My schedule.”

Athos waited, but d’Artagnan seemed to expect him to know what they were talking about. “What about it?”

“I’m not working the whole week of Christmas. I never go a full week without working at _least_ eight shifts, and interns are always the ones who get stuck with the holiday hours.” There was more than a touch of irritability in his voice now, besides sharp anger and, if Athos wasn’t wrong, embarrassment. “I didn’t ask for any special treatment just because I went undercover. I get that everyone feels bad about suspecting me of being mixed up with Rochefort, but I don’t need to receive any cushy treatment. I wanted to prove that I was ready to get back to work this Christmas. I would’ve taken all the shifts.”

Ah, now Intern Dusson’s request made sense. Athos relaxed and made a mental note to buy her a Toblerone for Christmas. “I didn’t do it,” he said simply.

“Porthos and Aramis, then.”

“I swear on my life that none of us had any idea about this.”

“You don't sound surprised,” d’Artagnan prodded suspiciously. “Did you orchestrate this?”

“No,” Athos said honestly. But he wasn't surprised that the department should feel a bit guilty about collectively abandoning d’Artagnan to be almost murdered by a fellow cop. (He was, further down, slightly surprised that they had decided to do something about it.)

D’Artagnan was quiet for a moment. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure. It was probably coincidence,” he offered.

“I doubt it,” d’Artagnan said darkly.

“Sometimes these things just turn out this way.”

D’Artagnan humphed, unconvinced. “If I find out you knew about this…”

“On my life, d’Artagnan.”

“Fine.” A staticky sigh.

Athos shifted in his seat and adjusted his camera lens. His target hadn’t stepped outside yet. Some criminals just didn’t have the decency to show their faces during convenient time slots. “What will you do with the extra time?”

If he wasn’t wrong, that was a surprised silence echoing down the line.

“Oh,” said d’Artagnan. “I guess I can make real Christmas plans now, huh? Damn it, my sisters are gonna murder me if I don’t visit for the twenty-fifth. I wanted to spend my free time just eating takeout and chilling with all of you on Christmas, but…”

“I completely understand your desire to remain in the realm of the living,” Athos assured him.

D’Artagnan snorted. “Jackass.”

“When do you want to go to Gascony?”

“We always do Christmas Eve together. I’ll go up on the morning of the 24th, I expect. Shit — remind me to buy train tickets tonight, before the prices get any higher.” D’Artagnan hesitated. “Um… I don’t know if your plans are flexible, or if you’d like to, um, you know, come with me? To Gascony?” He rushed on before Athos could speak. “My whole family is going to be there and it will probably be really chaotic, but if you want to come you’re so welcome. You don’t have to, duh, but I just thought I’d offer. Just in case. Even though you’ll have tons of other chances to meet my sisters that don’t involve being stuck in a farmhouse with them while everyone gets drunk on eggnog. It probably won’t be the calmest environment for anyone.”

Athos waited another moment.

“Okay, so I’ve talked both of us out of it,” said d’Artagnan. “Uh, you might want to stay here for Christmas. Not that I wouldn’t love to spend the day with you, but…”

“There will always be other Christmases,” Athos reminded him. “By next year I’ll know your sisters well enough to impinge on their hospitality, I hope.”

D’Artagnan sucked in a breath. “Yes! Next year!” Athos could hear his smile, and Athos knew how it stretched across d’Artagnan’s face and crinkled his nose. “Um, definitely! Absolutely, next year. You’ll know all of them by then. I’ll make sure of it.”

* * *

 

Athos’ target never appeared, so he closed up and set his alarm to come back early the next morning.

On his way home, he passed the bakery that d’Artagnan loved so much. They had a special every day of the week. This month, Tuesdays were pear cupcakes with honey-cheddar frosting. Athos grimaced at the thought of cheese-flavored icing, but then he stopped short. He looked at the sign again.

A plan was forming in his mind. He wasn’t sure if he could pull it off, and he didn’t have even half of it figured out, but…

He was in and out of the store in a minute flat, a cupcake secured in a pink bakery box wrapped with twine. It felt like an impulse buy, but if Athos could figure this out then it would be the start of something incredible.

D’Artagnan was delighted and puzzled by the cupcake. “Why?” he asked.

Athos shrugged, going for casual. His years of deadpanning his way through life could surely see him safely through this moment. “Just because,” he said.

“Really?” D’Artagnan swiped a finger through the frosting (honey and cheddar, eugh; Athos repressed a shudder). He closed his eyes and hummed delightedly. “Yummmmmm. And you. You are even sweeter than this cupcake.” He put the box on the counter, as carefully as another person might handle their baby. When it was safely out of the way, he snuggled close to Athos and wrapped Athos’ arms around his own waist.

Athos tightened his arms around his boyfriend and pressed a kiss to his lips. “I’m glad you like it.”

* * *

 

Day two was different than the first. Athos felt that supplying d’Artagnan with sweets every day for two weeks would be, if not foolhardy, at least a bit excessive.

Instead he dug out his Collection of Stuff. He refused to call it a scrapbook, even if it did consist of newspaper clippings and photographs pasted into a large book with blank pages.

Athos did not scrapbook. “Scrapbook" was not even a verb. It was ridiculous.

Inside the collection of Stuff was the very first article written about the then-newly formed Musketeer Agency. He passed it to d’Artagnan when they met for dinner after work. D’Artagnan wiped his hands of burrito and picked up the clipping.

“That was our second public writeup,” Athos said. “We started with small cases. We couldn’t be picky about our choices. Then we caught one that drew attention.”

“You stopped that senator from being assassinated, right?”

Athos nodded. “Mm. So the press had their eye on us. This is what happened with our next public case.”

D’Artagnan raised his eyebrows as he read the article. “You stopped an international rare parrot smuggling ring?”

“It started as a blackmailing case. We had no idea how it would unfold, or that it would get so big. Look at the third paragraph down.”

D’Artagnan frowned, scanning for whatever Athos meant. He saw it, and he snorted so hard that he started coughing, choking on his own laughter.

Athos propped his elbow on the table and hid a smile in his hand.

“‘The three private detectives are, like the birds they saved, _l’inseparables_.’ Incredible. They called you lovebirds. The only thing that trumps this is the picture of Porthos with a parrot on his head.” D’Artagnan coughed and laughed again. “Did the paper know…?”

“The dual meaning? Probably.”

D’Artagnan leaned over the small table to peck at Athos’ lips. “My sweet little lovebird.”

* * *

 

Day three called for French hens. Athos spent an agonizing half-hour researching Bresse chicken, and then another forty-five minutes writing down the names of companies that sold the type in local markets.

He bought three chicken breasts and painstakingly followed a recipe. During the following two and a half hours, his kitchen was filled with the sound of loud cursing and low muttering and much clattering, and finally, the scent of roasting chicken.

Athos sagged onto a kitchen stool, and then he realized just how much mess a hen could make. He swore and got up again to tackle the dishes.

By the time d’Artagnan got off his shift, Athos had texted, "Come over. Have dinner.”

D’Artagnan was expecting takeaway, of course. Athos would have expected the same from d’Artagnan on a work day. But it was worth all the work to see d’Artagnan’s face when he saw Athos take the beans au gratin out of the oven. In, no less, the dish d’Artagnan himself had brought over to the apartment when he’d realized that Athos’ cooking materials consisted on a coffee maker and a pot for pasta.

D’Artagnan gaped at the set table. “You cooked,” he said dumbly.

Athos set the chicken down smugly. “And no fire brigade was needed.”

* * *

 

Athos didn’t see d’Artagnan on day four, but that was alright. Day four was easy, as it was all electronic. Athos made some discreet inquiries to Constance, who was infamous among their friend group for keeping blackmail fodder from the beginning of time.

He sent it to d’Artagnan with the message: “Think of this the next time P&A say something is a stupid idea. They have had plenty of their own.”

He received a series of texts from d’Artagnan less than an hour later.

> SEKJFNLEIDNIFEWNFNERDJFHNJDH

> WHAT IS THIS I MEAN WHERE IS IT FROM

> *WHEN

> NO WHERE AS WELL

> HOW DID PORTHOS GET SO SLOSHED THAT HE’S CAT CALLING WILD TURKEYS

> aramis i understand tbh

> but pORTHOS

> I AM GOING TO TEASE THEM ABT THIS ALL MONH

> MONTH

> ALL YEAR

> FOR THE RST OF OUR LIVES

> “hey aramis remember when you flirted with a turkey”

> “i think she was totally into it”

> “do u still talk to her”

> u r the best bf

> EVER

> ur the love of my light, the apple croissant of my eye

> I LOVE YOU xoxoxoxo

> I’m rewatching it and when Aramis falls into the fountain

Athos smiled to himself and considered day four a job well done.

* * *

 

Athos didn’t see d’Artagnan the next day until late at night, after d’Artagnan’s double shifts and the agency tracking down a rare-books dealer.

Day five wasn’t time-sensitive, and being on opposite schedules from d’Artagnan gave him more time to practice for day six. But Athos wished more and more as the day progressed that he had just gotten day five over with.

What would d’Artagnan think? Obviously, the best outcome was that he would be overjoyed to take the next step in their relationship. But Athos’ mind kept replaying innocuous comments that d’Artagnan had made about couples moving too fast; silent gestures that Athos had interpreted as negative signs.

D’Artagnan had moved away from him slightly the last time Athos had brought up the idea of moving in together, and a second later Athos had realized that d’Artagnan was getting comfortable on his seat; but what if he had truly recoiled and then made a show of adjusting to hide his revulsion?

Not true. Athos reminded himself that d’Artagnan was nothing if not excellent at making his complaints known.

(If he thought it would hurt Athos’ feelings, though…?)

It was a relief to finally hold out the keyring.

“You’re here all the time,” he said, forcing himself to speak evenly. If he couldn’t go for casual, he could at least stay away from totally-freaked-out. “I figure you should be able to get in when I’m not here.”

It could have been enough, and he faltered when d’Artagnan took the keyring with a grin. But.

“I was also thinking,” Athos said slowly. Oh God, just get it over with. “I thought… Maybe you should stop paying rent for that shitty clubhouse you call an apartment.”

D’Artagnan met his eyes with surprise and, if Athos wasn’t wrong, please don’t let him be wrong, hope. “You mean, move in with you?”

Athos cleared his throat. He fidgeted with his jacket zipper. He nodded.

“Yeah.” D’Artagnan grinned. “Yeah.”

* * *

 

Day six was eons less nerve-wracking. Athos had practiced with Porthos the day before, in between searching for book dealers and filing paperwork.

Now he stood before the stove in his apartment while d’Artagnan still slept.

“It’s all there in the pan,” he heard Porthos tell him. “All you have to do it trust it to happen. It does the work itself, and you just flip it over.”

Athos narrowed his eyes at the pan full of frothy whipped eggs. _Don’t fuck this up for me_ , he thought at the soon-to-be-omelette. _I’m trusting you to do your thing_.

He prodded at the eggs. The underside wasn’t quite cooked yet. Should he wait to add the vegetables, or add them now? Would they sink to the bottom? Athos ground his teeth. Curse the caveman who’d invented cooking. It was too complicated. He didn’t dare move away from the stove for fear that the omelette would burn.

How was one omelette harder than three chicken breasts?

He heard slow, uneven footsteps behind him, and tensed further. Okay. Okay. His judge was here to rate his performance. No big deal.

D’Artagnan came up behind Athos and nosed at his unshaven throat. “What’re you doing?”

“Making an omelette.”

D’Artagnan’s sass meter was low in the morning, so there was only a moment of quiet in lieu of a sarcastic comment. “Hmm,” he said finally. “Why?”

“I thought you’d like breakfast.”

Another long moment of contemplative silence.

Then, “Athos…”

The tone set off warning bells in Athos’ head.

“Do you not want it?” he asked quickly. “I can make something else if you want, or you can cook. I thought I’d try something new but it’s no big deal.”

“Athos.” D’Artagnan squeezed Athos’ waist gently. “I want it. It smells really good.”

Athos didn’t relax. “But?”

D’Artagnan snuggled closer. “Don’t…” He huffed, wafting morning breath across Athos’ face. “I can’t help but notice that you’ve been giving me lots of attention these past few days. Not that I mind,” he added with a smile, rubbing his cheek against Athos’ chin. “I love attention. Give me an omelette every morning. But.”

There it was.

“I don’t want you to feel like you need to bribe me to stay,” said d’Artagnan, and it was so unexpected that Athos dropped the spatula.

He turned around to face d’Artagnan. “I’m not,” he said.

“Okay.” D’Artagnan frowned and rubbed Athos’ arms. “Just, with the surprise cupcake and the dinner you made for us, and the key to your place, and now breakfast when we usually just have coffee… It’s not about your ex-wife? Or anything about the horrible break-up we pretended to go through?”

Relief relaxed Athos’ shoulders. He almost laughed. “No,” he said, shaking his head. “That has nothing to do with it.” Why couldn’t people believe that he was over it?

“You know that we can still talk about that,” d’Artagnan encouraged him. “I’ll listen if you want to do more couple-y things. But talk to me, Athos. Don't ply me with gifts because you’re worried, okay?”

Athos kept shaking his head. “It’s not that.” D’Artagnan didn’t look convinced. Athos weighed the options in his mind for a split-second. There was no contest, really, between keeping it a surprise for d’Artagnan or making him think that Athos was on the verge of a breakdown.

“It’s the Twelve Days of Christmas,” he explained.

D’Artagnan’s face went blank. “Huh?”

Athos gestured at the tray. “Six eggs. It’s… the song.”

D’Artagnan gaped at him.

Athos cleared his throat. He scratched his chin. He glanced speculatively out the window; maybe an enormous pigeon could swoop in and carry him off before he made more a fool of himself.

Finally d’Artagnan said, “What’s tomorrow?”

Athos balked. “That’s a surprise!”

“What was yesterday — Wait, the turkey story? That was — And the pear! The chicken… Well.” D’Artagnan looked down. “Now I really feel like a prat. My present’s going to be terrible.”

Athos stepped closer. “I’m not groveling or trying to prove myself worthy of you.” He reminded himself to be brutally honest. “Not more than I ever have been.” On a graph of his pathetic gratitude to have d’Artagnan, over their relationship, he was probably nearest to their beginning when he’d still been pinching himself to make sure it wasn’t all a coffee-induced hallucination. “I wanted to. Dus… You said that you have time off, and I figure, why not do a few little things to make you happy?”

“So this breakfast in bed thing isn’t going to stick around?”

Athos smiled. “It could, if you tipped the waiter.” He dodged d’Artagnan’s puckered lips and added primly, “Accredited EU currency only, please.”

* * *

 

> So what’s seven?

> Athos

> AAATTTTHOOOOOOSSSSSSS

> What’s day seven

> Tell meeeeee

 **> > **Meet me at the fourth arrondissement bridge.

They wandered up the Seine for half an hour. Athos held d'Artagnan's hand, at first for the romantic gesture and then for warmth as night fully settled in. 

“There are supposed to be these two gay swans living around here,” said Athos apologetically. “Maybe they went to Morocco for the summer.”

“They’re gay?”

“According to Aramis, yes.”

“That’s so rad. Do you think they color themselves rainbow for Pride?”

“They’re not peacocks, darling.” 

“Pssh. Swans are smart creatures. Have you ever been attacked by a swan? They’re cunning. They could figure out how to dye their feathers.” 

* * *

 

On day eight, D’Artagnan woke Athos by shaking him and saying, “Listen. I milked a cow when I was seven and I never want to touch a wet udder again.”

“Damn,” Athos said into his pillow. “There goes the day trip I scheduled to a farm.”

D’Artagnan shuddered theatrically. “Don’t even.”

Athos pushed himself up and squinted at his boyfriend through his fringe of bedhead. “Why would I make you milk a cow? You’re not a maid.”

As he said it, he remembered the dress that d’Artagnan currently had in his closet, washed but slightly stained from their play last week. He blushed.

“Or _am_ I?” d’Artagnan said wickedly. “Does this present involve some kind of role-play?” He fluttered his lashes. “Do you have a pair of overalls in your dresser?”

Athos flung off the covers and rolled out of bed. “Just for that, you’re going to have to wait until tonight to find out what today’s present is.”

True to his word, Athos refused to hint what he had planned until d’Artagnan was home.

He bundled them both up, in deference to the cold winter air, and led d’Artagnan up the building’s stairwell, up and up to the door to the roof.

“I asked Mme. Fauchelent for the key,” he explained. He pushed open the door and lead d’Artagnan into the dark crisp air of December in France. Two blankets were laid out in the middle of the roof.

They lay down and let their eyes adjust to the dark. Athos waited.

“There,” he said, pointing triumphantly. “The Milky Way.”

D’Artagnan huffed out a laugh and tilted his body toward Athos. “Admit it: you’re doing this to satisfy your secret and evil love of puns.”

“I’ll never admit to anything,” Athos swore. “Puns are the antithesis of reason.”

D’Artagnan chuckled again. His hand fumbled for Athos’; he followed the line of Athos’ arm and snugged his hand in Athos’ jacket pocket, intertwining their fingers.

“Day five,” he said quietly. “The keyring you gave me. That’s for real, right?”

“Of course. If I hadn’t been ready to share a home with you, I would have found something else for a present.”

D’Artagnan’s grip tightened on Athos’ hand. Athos wrapped his other arm around his boyfriend and curled his fingers into d’Artagnan’s hair, tangled up and secure in d’Artagnan’s grip.

* * *

 

The ninth day was simple. Athos had considered and discarded various plans to take d’Artagnan to a ballet, or perhaps go out to a club. But neither of those were _them_.

He was late getting home. He fretted about the schedule, planning how he would rush home and set the scene with d’Artagnan watching and figuring out the day’s gift.

But wasn’t this the point of the day, that Athos need not perform for d’Artagnan; that he could share his plans and let d’Artagnan guess at his reasoning, and still be assured that d’Artagnan would stay and indulge Athos?

Instead of worrying about the surprise he texted d’Artagnan instructions to set up the room himself.

Candles were lit and the lights were dimmed when Athos came home, and the iPod player was set up with Athos’ playlist at the ready.

D’Artagnan wiggled his eyebrows at him as he came in the door. “So what’s all this? It’s nine ladies dancing. Are we going to dress up in skirts and have an orgy?”

“I thought about what you said a few days ago,” said Athos. “I think you had a point. We don’t need grand gestures to keep each other. We only need this. Just let me hold you for a while.”

The music started, a slow dreamy waltz that cast the darkened room into further romantic shades.

He caught d’Artagnan up into a swaying embrace, pressing closer until there was no space between them. D’Artagnan’s chest pressed against his, firm and warm. Athos felt his heartbeat through his own chest.

* * *

 

“If you think about it, the twelve days of Christmas are totally a great setup for a twelve-part porno. The Twelve Gays of Christmas.”

Athos closed his eyes in a vain attempt to sleep. “No, I hadn’t thought about it. I still don’t want to think about it.”

“A studio could release one video each day leading up to Christmas. Like, five golden rings are about handcuffs and piercings. Maids a-milking would be nipple play. Ten lords a-leaping would be about dudes banging each other; that one’s obvious. I have no idea how the birds or the pear tree would fit in, though.”

Athos waited for the inevitable follow-up, but d’Artagnan was consumed in thoughtful silence, so he cleared his throat and gave the cursory punchline. “With a lot of lube, I imagine.”

D’Artagnan smacked Athos on the thigh. “Pervert.”

“I?” Athos asked with exaggerated shock.

“Bet you’ve got the twelve-video series in your closet,” d’Artagnan said, smushing his nose against Athos’ shoulder as he twisted around to find a comfortable position. “On VHS.”

“They’re a collector’s item,” Athos said, and curled around d’Artagnan to keep him still through the night.

* * *

 

Athos looked at d’Artagnan’s suitcase, lying open and empty on Athos’ bed.

He looked at the owner of the suitcase, who was lying upside-down off the side of the bed and playing a game on his phone.

“I know today is busy, what with your packing and gift-wrapping to do,” Athos said drily.

D’Artagnan hummed, not looking up from the game as it trilled and whistled. “I always do it at the last minute anyway. It’s a tradition by now.”

Athos sat next to d’Artagnan, resisting the urge to pass his socked foot through d’Artagnan’s hair.

“In consideration of your busy schedule, I’ve kept today’s gift short.” Athos handed d’Artagnan an envelope. “You can open it now or on Chri— alright, or now.”

D’Artagnan flung the remains of the envelope to the floor and unfolded the tickets inside.

“ _STOMP_?”

“They’re a modern dance group from New York. Their shtick is using strange, everyday objects as instruments.”

“I know about them. This is awesome!” D’Artagnan pulled himself up a little to stare at Athos. His eyes were shining, either with excitement or from the blood rushing to his head. “I love it! Two tickets, are you sure you can stand the banging of trash cans and stuff?”

“I’ve heard that it’s a good show because of the trash cans and stuff, not despite them. Besides,” he admitted, “I’ll probably enjoy your enjoyment of it even more than the actual show.”

“Best bf ever,” d’Artagnan said fervently. He eyed Athos’ crotch. “I wonder if I can give you a blowjob without sitting up?”

“Please consider your gag reflex in that position,” Athos pleaded.

D’Artagnan looked like he was considering it. “I think I could do it. I need to work on my core muscles, anyway. Hold still.”

Athos gave in to his urge to kick lightly at d’Artagnan’s hair, and resigned himself to be the subject of experimentation.

* * *

 

The Christmas spirit was alive and well in Gascony, but d’Artagnan was too busy feeling lonely to be very festive.

He lay on his childhood bed and huffed grumpily into his pillow. His arrangement with Athos for Christmas was sensible. They each their own things to do. It was only for a few days.

He gave up and texted Athos.

> MISSSS YOOOUUUUUUU.

 **> > **I miss you too. It’s been six hours, but just knowing you won’t be home tonight makes it seem longer.

> Babe :(((

> h/o

 **> > **Did you tell Aramis to cheer me up by taking me to a vampire café?

> Him and me found it a while ago & I’ve been meaning to bring u there

 **> > **I’m reluctantly amused.

> Are you wearing the fangs?

 **> >** I declined. Porthos is.

 **> >** [picture attached] He says “Merry Chrithmath”

> LOL

 **> >** Now it’s your turn to receive a surprise: Go to your MP3 player.

> ok

 **> >** Check the playlist “Fiddlers’.”

> You sneak! <3

D’Artagnan listened, giggling, not masking his glee. The electro-fiddle screeched wickedly with drums. He keysmashed his delight.

 **> >** Like it?

> LOVE IT.

He grabbed his MP3 player and ran downstairs.

“ _Elles_! Look what Athos gave me for the eleventh day of Christmas!”

He elbowed Gwen out of the way when she tried to grab the player from him. “Don’t _actually_ look; listen.”

“Lemme see!” Gwen said, wrestling him while he tried to plug his player into the ancient speaker setup.

“Is it porn?” Marion asked.

Aurelia sat up straight, nearly spilling her wine. “Fridge rule sixteen, forbidden to play raunchy video recordings while children are present,” she rattled off.

D’Artagnan bit Gwen’s wrist, freeing him to play the first track. The fiddles started up.

“What the hell is this?”

D’Artagnan checked the readout. “Stepan Grytsay. It’s a playlist of electro-swing that Athos sent me. Isn’t he the best?”

Lisabeth listened with her head cocked to the side. “Is the playlist from the level of hell where the Devil keeps his golden fiddle?”

“I don’t know, I like it,” said Chiara. She swung her toddler’s chubby fists in rhythm. “Are you dancing, ma chérie? Do you like the club music?”

“It’s fiddles!” D’Artagnan explained. He got blank looks.

“Yes, Charlie,” Gwen drawled, “we _have_ realized." 

D’Artagnan interrupted her. “For the twelve days of Christmas; the eleventh is eleven fiddlers fiddl—“

“Oh my _God_ ,” said Lisabeth. “That is horrifically punny. I think I hate this on principle.”

“Charlie, you didn’t tell us your boyfriend is a Hallmark movie,” said Marion.  

“And sweet as marzipan,” said Gwen, wrinkling her nose.

Several various family members said, “ _Oooooh_.”

D’Artagnan narrowed his eyes at Gwen. “Take that back.”

“Marzipan,” she taunted. “Sticky and sweet and gets stale when it’s old.”

Chiara tried to cover her guffaw.

“Marzipan is _sugar mud._ Athos is — is refined chocolate. Athos is _cupcakes_. Take it back.”

“Eleven fiddlers of marzipan,” Gwen sang.

He launched himself at her.

“Don’t knock over the tree!” Lisabeth yelled.

* * *

 

Long-standing rules dictated that all members of the d’Artagnan family must stay in bed on Christmas morn until an agreed-upon hour. When they were small, this had given their parents an hour or two of quiet and coffee before their brood would descend upon the tree and, like a cloud of locusts, strip it clean. Now the extra few hours functioned the same way for the d’Artagnan siblings, as those who had nursed their children or their drinks last night snuck downstairs to finish wrapping presents.

D’Artagnan woke up early and stared at the ceiling, wiggling his toes and trying to guess what gifts he’d get later that day.

He didn’t last for half an hour before his curiosity overpowered him. He rolled over, keeping his cocoon of blankets snug around him, and grabbed his phone.

> Let me guess what 12 is.

> twelve sexy muscled drummers who have an orgy in front of me

> with new and interesting use of drumsticks

> sponsored by the Twelve Gays of Christmas VHS series

> You have somehow cloned yourself 12 times and are going to make sweet love to me involving drumsticks somehow

 **> >** I love you but it is five in the morning. Go away.

> Fine, I’ll keep these twelve drummers to myself then

> ……. Aren’t you supposed to be jealous

> I’M HAVING RANDY SEX WITH TWELVE MUSCLED MEN

 **> >** GO AWAY

D’Artagnan grumpily snuggled down into his cocoon again. He tapped out a dozen holiday greeting texts to various friends. After a moment of hesitation, he sent one to Captain Treville’s email as well.

Flea was the only one who responded this early. Xe wrote, “Bonnes fêtes, santé et prospérité ;)"

> Soup kitchen today? 

>> Yup

> My best to all. Say hi to Constance for me if u see her ;) 

Twelve drummers drumming. What could it be? Another playlist? A preview of the  _ STOMP _ performance, maybe, some video? 

Briefly he entertained the idea of Athos showing up with Porthos and Aramis, all of them playing on little kid-sized drums as they entered the d’Artagnan homestead. It was a ridiculous thought. Probably self-centered — what, they didn’t have anything better to do than come see him? But it was nice all the same. 

He dozed off to that daydream, and woke an hour later to the sound of tiny feet running past his door and clattering down the stairs. Slower, heavier footsteps followed them, pausing for their owner to knock on d’Artagnan’s door. 

He ambled downstairs and joined in the celebration. He loved ripping the paper off presents. He pretended he was doing it to imitate his niblings, but he saw Chiara smirking at him after a particularly gleeful spree. 

Children piled on him, demanding help with their dolls and craft kits. Sisters caught hold of him and planted kisses on thanks on his temples. In-laws passed around mugs of hot cocoa and caught him up on his family’s doings. He nearly forgot about Athos’ present, inasmuch as he could ever put Athos out of his mind. 

But when the drumming started up from outside the house, d’Artagnan knew exactly what it was. 

“What is that?” Adelaide said, but d’Artagnan was already scrambling for the front door. 

He threw it open and was already counting before he realized that there was only one person standing on their front lawn, with a marching band drum around her torso, rolling out a quick beat. She saw d’Artagnan and winked, but kept going. 

People crowded around him, peering out of the door. 

“Charles, it’s freezing outside,” Lisabeth said from the back of the crowd. 

“Twelfth day of Christmas, right?” Aurelia murmured in d’Artagnan’s ear. 

He nodded. “It’s from Athos.” 

The drummer gave a last roll on the drum and finished. D’Artagnan clapped. The others behind him took up the applause. The drummer started in surprise, and made a clumsy, shy bow. 

She retreated to the van she’d parked on the side of the road, a white service vehicle with the name of a delivery company on the side. She unstrapped the drum and pushed it into the back of the van. 

“Is that it?” Chiara’s wife asked from somewhere behind d’Artagnan. 

“No, wait,” said Aurelia. “I think she’s getting something from the boot.” 

“Can I see?” Lorraine begged. “ _Maman_ , can I see? Can you put me on your shoulders?” 

“You’d hit your head on the ceiling, honey,” said Chiara. “Just hold on and we’ll all see in a minute.” 

The courier was indeed retrieving something else from the van: a large, flat, square box. 

D’Artagnan recognized a familiar logo on the side of the box and delight rushed through him. He fought against a premature grin. If this was what he thought it was…. 

The courier reached the front door and paused, looking at the group trying to squeeze into the doorway. “D’Artagnan?” 

“Yes?” said half of the crowd. 

D’Artagnan untangled himself and stepped forward. “I think that’s for me.” 

He took the box. “Aurelia, will you help me?” 

His sister skipped over to him and held her arms out, dais-like, so that he could lay the box on them. He ripped through the “Freshly Baked!” sticker and, reverently, opened the lid. 

He began to laugh. 

Aurelia peeked over the top of the box. “You were right,” she said. “Athos  _ is _ a cupcake.” 

D’Artagnan looked around and saw the courier halfway to her van. “Hey!” he called. “Want one?” 

She turned around. “One what?” 

D’Artagnan lifted out one of the twelve red-and-white cupcakes and showed her the drum, made of perfectly piped frosting, on the top.

* * *

  
> I love you. My family is quiet for the first time all day. Sugar comas. They’re weak. 


End file.
